


The Closer I Am To Fine

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Meetings, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Male Slash, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:48:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade's life has hit rock bottom, but maybe it's starting to look up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Closer I Am To Fine

 Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector for New Scotland Yard, one of the most prestigious police forces in the world, finally fully realized that his life had hit rock bottom. Left his cheating wife. Career in the hands of a highly functioning sociopath. And now, fucking kidnapped.

“I don't know who you think you are, but you can not fucking get away with this.” Hands balled into fists, he leaned on the large oak desk and into the pasty face of the bureaucrat sitting dispassionately behind it.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade. There is no cause for you to swear.”

“Tell me now or I beat the shit out of you and then arrest you for kidnapping, assaulting an officer, and intent with a deadly weapon,” Lestrade leaned further into the man's face, which neither flinched nor blinked. 

“I hardly think that is necessary, Detective Inspector. And there are no deadly weapons present.” Judging by the elegantly dressed man's (lack of) reaction and the absence of any type of body guard, the policeman slowly realized the situation was not explosive and attempted to dial back his anger.

“Your arse face is killing me,” Lestrade said, pulling back from the desk and sitting down in one of the elegant leather wing-back chairs facing the bureaucrat. He attempted to affect a posture of disinterest and disrespect. Kind of like his teenage daughter did when he fussed at her.

“Charming.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Would you stop these power games and tell me who you are.” Greg looked around at the well appointed, small but classically decorated office. Leather chairs. Shelves and shelves of leather bound books (No bet that some of them are first editions, pretentious git). And, if he weren't mistaken, a hand crafted Persian rug under his feet. 

“Tea, Detective Inspector?” Pasty Face stepped out from behind his desk to the antique table, and poured two cups of tea and handed Lestrade the cup and saucer. “Cream and sugar?” Three piece suit. Hand tailored? No bets. Fob watch? Pretentious git.

Although he realized he was in no immediate danger, Lestrade's patience frayed and snapped. Anger and bluster weren't the way with this one, he sensed. One. Two. Three deep breaths. 

“Thank you for the tea. Clearly, you brought me here to speak with me. However, I do have pending cases and open investigations. I'm sure a man such as yourself can understand...”

“I brought you here to speak about our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” Pasty Face said. Or maybe Arse Face. Lestrade debated which name fit better.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade scrubbed his face with his hand. “What has Sherlock done now and what is the cost to fix it?”

“You misunderstand, Detective Inspector. I am Mycroft Holmes, his older and exhausted brother. I worry about my brother constantly and since he spends much of his time in your company, I felt it necessary to meet you and learn more about you.” Holmes looked Lestrade in the eyes, blue searching out brown, searching out truth.

“I find it difficult to believe that you needed to meet me to learn about me,” Lestrade countered, meeting his eyes without wavering. “You seem like a man who can find out anything. Like how to kidnap a New Scotland Yard Detective Inspector while he's working.”

“Regrettable, I see now,” Mycroft grimaced slightly, possibly acknowledging an error in judgment.

They drank their tea in silence. Lestrade took in the office while Mycroft formed his opinion of the strong willed policeman.

“Mr. Holmes, I am not sure what you want me to tell you. Sherlock works the difficult cases. He takes the details and in minutes makes sense of them, seeing things that even our analysts miss,” Lestrade again met the blue eyes. “If it takes longer, he works the puzzle until he solves it. He is clean of drugs and has been as long as he's been working with NSY. I won't allow him to help if he's high and I've leveraged that to help him stay clean. Within the past month it's been easier. This Doctor Watson has been a good influence.”

“Thank you, Detective Inspector. Perhaps we can continue to meet semi regularly so I can stay abreast...”

“He won't talk to you, will he? Let me guess. He hangs up when you call? IF he even picks up?” Lestrade's smile met somewhere between derision and amusement.

Mycroft Holmes chuckled and stood up, signifying the end of the meeting. “You are quite astute, DI Lestrade.”

“I would be happy to answer any questions about your brother. I will not be your spy and I will not take kindly to being kidnapped again.” Lestrade reached into his jacket's inner breast pocket for a business card. “Here is my card. It has my work number. My mobile number. My email. Please consider one of _those_ conventional means of communication next time.”

“I shall. Good day, sir,” Mycroft Holmes said, taking the card and extending his right hand.

Lestrade shook his hand. “You know, you are remarkably like your brother.” As he turned to leave, neither Lestrade nor Mycroft knew if that were a good thing.

Six hours later, when Lestrade finally sat down to drink his (cold) coffee from the 2pm coffee run and to clean off his desk, his eyes lit on a creamy ivory square envelope, with D.I. Lestrade hand written in public school penmanship. Anyone could have left it over the course of the afternoon.

“Dear Detective Inspector Lestrade,

Thank you for your gracious response this morning. In the future should the need arise, I shall contact you in a way you will find more acceptable. 

Cordially, 

Mycroft Holmes”

“That posh bastard. A thank you note for a kidnapping,” Lestrade said, shaking his head. He tucked the note into his log book under February 1 st as a reminder to include the kidnapping in his daily work notes, and made his way home to his new apartment and a microwave spaghetti and meat sauce dinner.

~ ~ ~

With the Chinese smuggling ring arrested and awaiting trial and or deportation, thanks in large part to Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade took a moment to simply sit. He cleared his desk, threw hidden protein bar wrappers away and generally enjoyed the eye of the storm. 

A knock on his office door; Sgt. Donovan tucked her head in and announced, “Sir, this gentleman insists he will speak only with you.” Lestrade rolled his eyes and nodded, and Donovan ushered the man in.

The well-dressed courier (so, not a courier service; probably a private hire?) handed the detective an envelope. Lestrade took it from him, filed in the “to read” pile, and turned back to his computer screen. 

The courier cleared his throat. “Sir--” Lestrade swiveled back toward his desk, and the courier said, “I have been instructed to wait for a response.”

“Like a damn Harry Potter Owl,” Lestrade groused. He opened the posh envelope with the public school penmanship, and read,

“March 28,

Dear Detective Inspector,

I trust you will find this a more acceptable method of communication. I would like to speak to you regarding my brother. Would you meet me this evening at 9 pm at the Diogenes Club for dinner and discussion. ..“ 

Dinner. Lestrade looked down at his wrinkled cotton shirt and his pants. 'Damn, is that a ketchup stain from lunch? This will not work for the Diogenes Club, whatever the fuck that is.' 

“I will send a car to your office, unless you prefer I send it to your apartment. What you are wearing is perfectly acceptable. 

Cordially,

MH”

How the fuck does he do that?

The courier cleared his throat, and Lestrade said, “Yes, yes. Do you need a written response? 9pm. Yes, here.” He handed the response to the courier, and Lestrade grumbled, “Damn owls.”

“Owls, sir? What owls?” Lestrade's stare convinced Anderson not to ask anything further. Well acquainted with that look, Anderson backed out of the office. It could wait.

~ ~ ~

At 9pm precisely, a black-suited driver appeared in front of New Scotland Yard. Lestrade fully believed the chauffeur was more likely Secret Service than livery service, judging by his bulk and the tell-tale bulge of a shoulder holster under his suit jacket. Could Holmes' “minor post in the British government” require body guards? What the hell had he gotten himself into. By 9:20, the chauffeur pulled in front of the Diogenes Club and escorted the Detective Inspector silently down the hallway to a highly varnished cherry wood door. With one virtually silent knock, the driver opened the unmarked door and ushered Lestrade into the same elegant office as the month before. This time, however, the sitting area of the room included a dining table suitable for two.

Lestrade stared at the table. He hadn't seen anything like this since he was a child and visited his aged grandmother at her country estate. White Damask tablecloth with not a single wrinkle—matching linen napkins. Blue Willow china settings for two. Were those Waterford crystal stemware? Suddenly his shirt seemed more wrinkled; his trousers much too casual. 

Mycroft Holmes emerged from a doorway at the back of the office, impeccably dressed in his tailored three piece suit and moved toward the two visitors. “Thank you, Robert. I shall inform you when it is time to take the Detective Inspector home.”

As the chauffeur left, Mycroft welcomed the policeman with a firm handshake.

“Thank you very much for this invitation. Please call me Greg.”

“Of course, I am Mycroft,” he responded in kind.

“Your parents had a knack for unusual names,” Greg joked, but as Mycroft looked blankly at home, he realized his joke failed. 

“Our names are traditional Holmes names. Great Great Uncle Mycroft was...well, we do not often speak of him. There are many questions surrounding the legitimacy of his fortune...and his children.” Greg's jaw dropped open, and Mycroft added, “I am joking of course,” but Greg wasn't sure.

“I took the liberty of creating a menu for us this evening. Even if we must discuss Sherlock, there is no reason for the meal to be distasteful, too.” Greg raised an eyebrow at the comment, but realized, as a smile played around the corners of Mycroft's mouth, that this man had a wicked sense of humor. “I do hope you enjoy duck.”

Mycroft presented a bottle of wine to Greg, a 1996 Pinot Noir. He opened the bottle, his hands deftly working the cork screw, and presented the cork to his guest. An ale-on-tap man, Greg was out of his league, but Mycroft's manners impressed him instead of embarrassed him.

“This is one of my favorites,” Mycroft said. “I hope you will like it also. Please know that we can easily order a different beverage if you prefer sparkling water or an ale.” He poured Greg's glass and then his own, first swirling and then sipping. Greg followed suit. 

A timid knock on the door announced the arrival of dinner. Mycroft gestured the steward toward the table, as he and Greg carried the wine and goblets. 

“Our chef is quite good. I believe you will thoroughly enjoy dinner,” the steward began, holding out a chair for each gentleman in his turn. Shaking out each man's napkin and placing it on his lap, he presented their dinner courses on his antique wheeled-serving cart. “Our first course this evening is a cauliflower soup offered with blue cheese scones. Following that, Chef has created a Duck Confit in a spiced orange sauce, presented this evening with sauteed potatoes. Finally, for dessert, our pastry chef has outdone himself with this peanut butter and chocolate tart. If you prefer a more savory dessert, we do have Caerphilly cheese with blackberry jam.”

After placing a bowl of soup in front of Greg and Mycroft, the server filled their wine glasses. “As you savor this, you should notice hints of red cherry, vanilla, possibly cocoa or bacon. Of course oak.” Both men sipped. Mycroft accepted his. Greg savored his glass of wine from a bottle he was certain cost more than his car payment.

“Thank you Jonathan. We shall ring for you if we require any additional assistance.”

The elegance of the club and dinner. The old world appointments of the office. The Savile Row tailored suit. This Mycroft Holmes was not a minor official in the British government, Lestrade thought. 

Over dinner the gentlemen struggled to find common ground for conversation. Mycroft lived alone with no children or ex-spouse. Lestrade now lived alone, one daughter who lived with his ex-wife fifty percent of the time, unless she was angry with him—which seemed like most of the time to him. With Holmes a sympathetic listener, Greg found himself sharing details about his marriage and divorce that he usually felt were no one's business. Perhaps it was the second bottle of wine as well as Mycroft's shoulder. 

“Are you seeing someone now?” Holmes asked after dessert, his hands clasped under his chin. He seemed truly interested, which surprised Greg. Someone with as much clout as Mycroft Holmes surely must have better, more interesting draws on his time.

“No,” Greg answered truthfully. “I don't have much opportunity to meet someone. But you. Why are you not married? You have impeccable taste in food and clothes and furniture. I should think you would get a date like that!” Greg tried to snap his fingers, which only made him laugh. How much wine _had_ he drunk tonight? Mycroft didn't join the laughter. “You were a lady's man, weren't you. Chasing all the ladies around the university. I bet you could have married...”

“When I had the opportunity in my youth, the government did not allow such unions,” Mycroft said quietly, hoping Lestrade was drunk enough to either understand or forget.

“Ohhhhh. but what do you mean....ohhhh...." It dawned on Lestrade what Mycroft implied. He cocked his head sideways and looked at his new friend. Surprise faded to understanding,

Mycroft, who would never usually even allude to such a topic, attempted to explain. “At university I was quite involved with someone. But in my work and the laws being what they were, we decided it best not to stay together, not to prolong the inevitable.”

“I am sorry Mycroft. The laws were wrong.” Lestrade's voice was thick with sincerity. And wine. “Everyone should be able to get married. That way I wouldn't have suffered alone!” Barely keeping his laughter in, Greg chortled at his own punch line. “At this point, I'd be just as happy with a mate as a date.” He giggled at his rhyme. “I think I've had too much wine. Thank God I'm not driving.” 

“On that note, Gregory I believe it would be best to get you home." Mycroft said, and they made their way to Robert and into the car. "The couch in my office isn't as comfortable as a bed. Besides. People would talk.”

“Sherlock says people rarely do anything else. Sod them all,” he answered. “Oh, you wanted to talk about Sherlock, and I'm pretty sure I'm not in any shape to.”

“I wanted to thank you for your kindness toward my brother. You have been a great help to him. Know that you may call me at any hour if you have a problem with my brother or if you need my help in any way. We can speak at another time.”

The two sat in silence, thinking and texting, until Robert pulled up in front of the apartment building. “Thank you for dinner, Mycroft. I sincerely apologize for drinking too much. I didn't realize how empty my stomach was when I started. I won't make that mistake again; you have my word,” Greg said, extending his right hand in promise and in friendship.

“Would you like to do this again?” Mycroft seemed surprised as if he had expected his new friend to run away at his revelation.

“Yes but the next time no posh. Fish and chips in newspaper wrappers on a park bench!” 

“That sounds....lovely.” Greg couldn't see Mycroft's face but he was certain it was sour- puckered at the thought. They both knew and laughed.

Mycroft slid out of the car and followed Greg into his flat. “Are you alright?” he asked. “Would you prefer help getting inside? Getting some water and paracetamol for your head?” 

Mycroft followed him inside and shepherded Greg to the couch. In no shape even to take off his own shoes, Greg sat down on the couch and was almost asleep when Mycroft brought back the medicine.

“Take these,” Mycroft prodded, handing Greg two paracetamol and water. “You'll thank me in the morning. Good. Now lay down.” He tucked a throw pillow under Greg's head and covered him a sofa blanket. “Many a night I have slept on a couch, from exhaustion or the sheer enjoyment of a bottle of Bordeaux and good conversation.” Although half asleep, Greg realized how different Mycroft was from his brother. Where Sherlock's words were angles and spears, designed to poke and hurt, Mycroft's seemed soft and delicate, designed to comfort and to heal.

“You, Mycroft Holmes, are nothing like your brother. You are...nice. And kind,” the blanket mumbled just before a small snore. 

“You are nice and kind too, Gregory Lestrade,” Mycroft said, as he closed the door to the flat and walked back to the car.

~ ~ ~

Through sheer willpower, Greg arrived at the office by 8 the next morning, carrying the largest, darkest, thickest coffee he could convince the barista to make. His phone jangled its text message alert. Yowza, that is too loud, he thought, rubbing his temples.

**How is your head? – MH**

_What? I can't hear you over the elephant sitting on it. – GL_

**At least it's not tap dancing. – MH**

_That's something to be thankful for. Speaking of, TY for taking care of me. Was it good for you, too? – GL_

**Must you, Gregory? Please do not ever make me type “L O L” – MH**

**But if I ever did, then, lol – MH**

Greg put his phone down and chuckled, which hurt his head. More black tar. And the phone on vibrate.

Then Hell broke loose. 

Calls came into New Scotland Yard reporting an explosion on Baker Street. He and Donovan flew out of NSY. Lestrade worried about Sherlock and John; Donovan worried about her boss. The explosion led to a package addressed to Sherlock, which led them on a 36 hour roller coaster of bombs strapped to innocent people while Sherlock solved crimes before a deadline imposed by madman. 

The trail leads to a London pool, with a sandy haired ex soldier strapped with semtex explosives and his statuesque best friend with a Sig Sauer pointed at their arch nemesis. A phone call, an ironic ring tone, and the stand off ended just after midnight. The nemesis walked away and called off the snipers for that day. 

Lestrade and Donovan push their way to the ambulance to reach John and Sherlock. Traumatized and exhausted, the pair will not admit how frightened they are that Moriarty played them for 36 hours, leading them around like marionettes and then simply walked away.

Neither John nor Sherlock could provide any thoughtful or useful answers tonight. Lestrade agreed to see them in the morning, provided they went home to Baker Street if they wouldn't go to the hospital. 

Lestrade stood at his car, focusing on the mental list of what he has seen and heard and been told. Tonight, when he got home ( _Would_ he get home?) he would write it down and divide it up tomorrow. Assign individual aspects to different teams to try to get this fucker.

A hand on his shoulder and Lestrade jumped and turned. “Anderson, I have told you not to...”

Mycroft stood in front of him, impeccably dressed. At almost 1am, he wore a midnight blue dinner suit, with a formal shirt, and bow tie. Umbrella. Always the umbrella. 

“Are they alright?” Mycroft asked, with more worry than Lestrade had heard before. 

“Yes, for now. They can rest at home tonight, and I will see them tomorrow. They are safe, and I will post guards,” Lestrade said.

“My office will handle the guards,” Mycroft corrected. “My men are...differently trained than yours... with different...rules.” Lestrade didn't question. It was too early, much too early in the morning. Was it morning? Too many days had run together.

“Where ever you were on your way to, go. They will be fine,” Lestrade said. 

“I have just come from the opera. Madama Butterfly,” Mycroft offered. “I was headed to a late dinner when I received word.” As if on cue, Mycroft's stomach growled loud enough that neither man could ignore it, although Mycroft prayed Lestrade would.

“Your stomach is as loud as Sherlock when it's angry,” Lestrade joked. “Listen, I'm about done here. I actually have food in. Do you want to come to mine for dinner? Breakfast?” 

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply, but Lestrade added, “It's really no trouble. Going to cook for me, and I'm happy to cook for you. It won't be Duck Confit...”

“Thank you Gregory; that is especially kind. I would like that very much,” Mycroft smiled.

Within 20 minutes, they were in Mycroft's car (for the security rather than the comfort) and on their way.

Lestrade's apartment was clean and well organized although the blanket and pillow from the other night were on the floor, and the water glass and the paracetamol plastic wrapper still sat on the coffee table. The furniture seemed barely worn, as if it had been purchased recently as a group setting rather than having been accrued over the years. The shelves were bare of trinkets that told stories of times past. Wife took almost everything, Mycroft deduced, even though Greg had been the one wronged so many times over. 

Greg, with his head in the fridge, called out meal possibilities. “Grilled Cheese. Beans on toast. Spaghetti on toast. Scrambled eggs and sausage...”

“Yes. Breakfast sounds wonderful,” Mycroft said, having moved into the kitchen. “May I help? I've been known to crack a few eggs.” He tried not to stare at Greg's arse, jutting out from the fridge. Mycroft realized that chasing criminals + constant movement = a tight, muscular arse. Desk jockey + hours of phone time = ….

“No, I have the cooking. Hey, would you like to change into something more comfortable?” Mycroft sniggered at Greg's choice of words, and Greg blushed furiously. “I mean, would you like a change of clothes? I could give you a pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt or sweat shirt, you know, so your suit doesn't get dirty or wrinkled,” Greg explained, his voice trailing off. “I'm going to change out of this in a minute.” 

“Thank you. That would be extremely helpful,” Mycroft said, not sure what clothes of Greg's would fit him. Greg was a bit shorter but definitely more toned, especially in the thighs and abs and arse...

Greg walked up the hall to his bedroom/bath to find clothes for Mycroft Holmes, not something he thought he would ever say. Mycroft followed, and thanked Greg for the pair of flannel bottoms and a gray NSY t-shirt. “These will do nicely, thank you.”

Mycroft stepped into the en suite bathroom to change. He shut the door, and carefully took off his dinner jacket and formal shirt, realizing too late that he had not retrieved a hanger for his suit.

“Gregory,” Mycroft said as he opened the bathroom door, “May I have a hanger for my--”

Greg stood at the foot of his bed, bent over to untangle his ankle and foot from his trouser leg. He turned when he heard Mycroft, who stood in the doorway staring at Greg.

“What? I told you I was going to change,” Greg said, with no self-consciousness. In just his red boxer briefs, he turned to the closet next to the bathroom door and found a pair of sweat pants and a t shirt and stood there, holding them, staring at Mycroft staring at him.

Something in Mycroft's face had changed, softened. 

“Are you okay?” Greg asked as he moved closer. He reached out to Mycroft's bare shoulder with his right hand, and Mycroft tensed at the touch. “I know that it must have been difficult to see your brother in such danger tonight.”

“No. Yes. I--” Mycroft stammered. It wasn't the evening's previous activities that caused the stress. He had no interest in telling Gregory exactly what those boxer briefs were doing to him. Unfortunately, he didn't have to tell. It was really quite evident on its own.

Greg knew. He didn't have to deduce it or suggest it. He hadn't been sure how to initiate it, but each time he had thought of Mycroft since last night—since Mycroft said he was gay—he couldn’t think of anything else. To have Mycroft's thin delicate fingers entwined with his...Mycroft's lips on his neck, kissing down below his collar.

Greg reached out to the other man, caressing his cheek first with his hand, and then, moving his face in closer, with his own cheek. Mycroft sighed at the touch, knowing there was no way he could hide his interest and not quite sure he wanted to.

“I've never been with a man before, but I have never wanted to be with someone more than I do right now,” he said, his lips ghosting over Mycroft's cheekbones, his chin and finally, his lips. Mycroft kissed him and Greg responded, slowly at first, then more deeply. He pulled Mycroft in closer, cupping his neck, entangling his fingers in the man's short hair.

Mycroft moved out of the kiss; Greg's eyes questioned why.

“I had no ulterior motives when I came here this evening,” Mycroft said softly. “I want to make sure that this is something you wish to happen.”

Greg twined his left fingers with Mycroft's right, and led them to the straining cotton briefs. “Yes, Mycroft. This is something I want. Very much. I told you I've never been with a man not out of embarrassment. I just wanted you to understand.”

Mycroft kissed him, passion mingling with need. Sod his suit and dirt and wrinkles. Greg's nails trailed down Mycroft's back, and Mycroft moaned when fingers dipped into the waist band of his trousers.

“Do you like that, then?” Greg asked. Mycroft's expression and the growing bulge in his trousers answered. He took Mycroft's hand in his and led him to the bed. “Let me help you with your trousers.”

Fumbling, his fingers felt too thick to work. Greg finally unbuckled Mycroft's belt and unzipped his fly. “Silk boxers. My my.”

Mycroft slid off his trousers, but left the boxers in place. He removed Greg's boxer briefs, sliding his hands down along his arse and lightly squeezing. “Sit at the edge of the bed,” Mycroft suggested. He found the remote control for the iPod speakers and pressed play, relying on Greg's musical taste. Classic Miles Davis jazz enveloped them, something sensual and visceral. Mycroft spread his lover's thighs and stood between them. He stroked Greg's chest and shoulders and kissed his neck, tiny kisses on his pulse points, small licks up to his ear. His hands moved lower to Greg's cock. A moan punctuated the silence. “Did you like that?” Mycroft said. “Just wait.” 

Greg's sigh told the right story as Mycroft gently marked him at the base of his neck. Wide and dark, Greg's eyes spoke, yes, I am yours. 

Mycroft's mouth broke away but his hand settled between Greg's legs. “Wha--” 

“Shhh. Just. Enjoy.” Mycroft placed a throw pillow on the floor and knelt.

“Oh my GOD--” Greg gasped. Mycroft ran his tongue over his lips, and then slowly swirled it around the head of Greg's cock. Gasp turned moan told Mycroft it was good, all good. Working his tongue in flicks and flutters, he moved further down the shaft stroking with one hand as he gently licked each ball. Mycroft trailed his tongue further back, and Greg shuddered.

“No, love, I'm not ready for you to come yet,” Mycroft whispered to the flushed face above him. He kissed Greg's palm, and then sensually stroked his tongue across it, moistening it so Greg could stroke his own cock, a few strokes and a flick over the head as Mycroft concentrated on his balls and arse. He raised his finger to Greg's mouth. His lover sucked it, the sensation striking Mycroft's cock, and when his finger was released, he rubbed small circles over Greg's opening until he slowly slid his finger just inside. Greg clenched and almost objected til he realized that his hand movements grew more insistent, more frantic. Mycroft slowed things down as Greg's breathing became ragged.

“Not yet, love,” Mycroft said as he slid Greg's hand away, and his mouth replaced hand on the impossibly hard cock.

With Miles Davis setting a sultry tempo, Mycroft took Greg fully into his mouth. He flicked and stroked the thick shaft, and his hand worked the counterpoint, stroking up as his mouth moved downward, then hand back down again. Greg's face was passion and pure happiness. He stared down, unable to believe this was happening and wanting so much more. He pulled Mycroft's head in closer, begging him to take more, and pushed his hips forward in his own reply.

“My,” he said, his breathing ragged and quick, “I'm not going to last. I'm... I'm...” He shuddered and pulsed into Mycroft's mouth. He wanted to apologize, to swear it wouldn't happen again, but Mycroft's eyes were closed as he continued to suck and lick the shaft. He seemed happy to be there and even happier to be doing this.

“My, I'm-- I've never...” Gregory tried to explain as Mycroft stood up, wiping the corners of his mouth with his fingers. He leaned forward in a kiss, to share his taste with his new lover, to stroke his head, his hair. 

“Gregory, did you enjoy it? I'm glad. But please know that I also did, so very much. I do not do things only to make others happy.” His own cock strained at his tight silk boxers. 

Greg still tried to speak. Mycroft kissed him again and said, “The past is past. I do not mean to be abrupt or rude, because if you like, _we_ are the present and future. I do suppose next time, we should use a condom,” Mycroft said, as he reached for the pajama trousers Greg had provided. “Now, someone promised me a meal,” and as if on cue, his stomach rumbled fiercely.

As Mycroft put on the pajama bottoms, Greg hugged him from behind and slid his hands down Mycroft's bare chest, to the inner waistband of his boxers. “I'm happy to help with this before dinner,” he suggested, stroking Mycroft's cock through the pajama fabric. He wanted to love Mycroft as Mycroft had loved him and Greg meant it, thoroughly, completely, even though he never imagined making love to a man.

Mycroft tilted his head back against his lover's shoulder. Greg kissed his hair and temple and led him back to his king size bed, to the soft, worn denim duvet cover. He slid the silk boxers off, and the two lay facing each other, touching as much skin to skin, hand tenderly exploring, until Greg reached back to his night table drawer and retrieved a bottle of lube. Mycroft looked into his face, touched his ear, his jaw, his shoulder, his chest, as Greg warmed the lube in his hands. It was difficult to look at what he was doing, and he wanted to see Mycroft's face as Greg took him apart completely. 

“I've never done this to anyone else,” Greg said. “You're my first.” and he kissed Mycroft as his hand spread the warm lube up Mycroft's shaft, with a flick of his thumb over the head. A moan. 

“That. That was good. Excellent...”

“Was it, now. Let me see if I can do that again,” Gregory said, as his hand worked hidden. Mycroft was beyond watching. He lay back with his eyes closed and his mouth open, his face blissful but his breathing belying his calm.

Greg stroked down slowly, too slowly, cupping Mycroft's balls, and stroking them with his thumb, rolling them gently in his fingers, then back up again, tighter at the head. A few strokes was all Mycroft was going to need. 

He stopped stroking but wouldn't let Mycroft fuss. Greg caught Mycroft's mouth in a deep, heavy kiss, his tongue dragging across Mycroft's bottom lip.

The quiet, genteel man, so often all business, release his composure. 

“Gregory, I need you. I need you to finish me. Let me come...”

Greg traced the cock's head with his finger, mixing the leaking come with the lube, paying close attention to the lip of the head. “What's the magic word?” he whispered.

“Fuck you.”

“Well, not tonight,” Greg said. “But soon. Say it.”

“Please Gregory. Please don't make me wait. I can't wait,” Mycroft said, and moaned as Greg's hand moved down to his balls while Greg flicked his tongue over Mycroft's hard nipple.

“Tonight it's my hand, Mycroft. Next time, I promise you, it will be my mouth on you. I need to taste you. Would you like that? To fuck my mouth?”

Mycroft's body shuddered, the words pushing him over the edge. He came on Greg's fist, calling Greg's as his body arched against the duvet. 

Greg found a t shirt at the foot of the bed and cleaned them up. He dropped the shirt on the floor and rolled back toward Mycroft, fitting his head against his lover's neck and wrapping his arm over his waist. 

Mycroft dipped his chin and kissed Greg's head. Greg closed his eyes and hummed into it. Happy in his bachelor apartment for the first time in a year. 

“Are you hungry,” Greg asked. “I do make great scrambled eggs.”

“No, I just want to lie here with you. Would that be okay?” Mycroft asked, hesitating. All day and most nights, he was the commanding presence, but here, this was different. He wanted it to be different. He didn't want to be in charge or not in charge. He just wanted to be with Gregory.

“Better than okay. Will you stay here tonight? I would like it if you would,” Greg asked, bestowing tiny kisses on Mycroft's chest.

“Mmmhmmm,” he mumbled, already mostly asleep, his right arm curled around Greg's shoulder, stroking it with one finger. 

A year ago, Greg's world fell apart when he left his wife to save himself. Three months ago, Mycroft Holmes was a stranger in a crime scene parking lot. Two hours ago, he made a kind offer to a friend. Five minutes ago, he realized his world was just fine. He rolled onto his left side, into Mycroft, and closed his eyes.

 

 

 

 


End file.
